


Desire

by Liffis



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternative Universe - Alternate Species, Anal Sex, Consensual Sex, Dubious Consent, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Nicke has....uh...'biologically alternative facts', Non-Consensual Mating, Oviposition, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, and also the hots for Ovi for AGES, human!Sasha, putting the oviposition into ovi, supernatural!Nicke
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-19
Updated: 2020-01-19
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:57:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22311601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liffis/pseuds/Liffis
Summary: He's wanted Sasha ever since he could think./The thing is:wantingcomes with...several other implications, with him.
Relationships: Nicklas Backstrom/Alexander Ovechkin
Comments: 10
Kudos: 66





	Desire

**Author's Note:**

> Oviposition. Because, hahaha, "ovi" and "oviposition". You know the drill.  
That being said, I'm gay enough that it gives me VERY gay satisfaction to admit that writing some who's as homophobic in RL as Alexander Mikhailovich Ovechkin getting FUCKED (and bred) by another guy? Yeah, that's prime satisfaction for me. Get fucked, Ovechkin. _Literally._  
Listen, I don't know either. Is it underfucked-ness? Anger? Self-hatred for wanting/desiring someone as homophobic as Ovechkin? Who knows. I sure don't. But I do write oviposition dub/con porn. (Regarding dub/con: check end notes pls)
> 
> Song title is from Meg Myer's song of the same title. 
> 
> PS: Might wanna write more, tbqh I have a, uh, thing? For it. So yeah. Not sure but def an option to have more of this. Porn galore!!

He thinks of it. It’s impossible not to; he looks at Sasha and thinks of it, thinks of him, imagines the thick lines of his body swelling, his belly stretching, how would he carry -?

But those thoughts are off, bad, and imply – no. Either way, even if it was allowed, even if Sasha wanted it, even if they were in such a kind of relationship: he mustn’t, not ever. It’s risky, for humans. Their bodies are not exactly made for it.

(Nicke ignores that there are humans who _can_. There are reasons those like him know good mates.)

/

In the beginning, when he arrives in Washington, Sasha’s all he can think about. The changes of arriving somewhere new, a new territory, a new environment, new humans, new smells, and Sasha so close, so enticing, so tempting, it’s all he wants, all he’ll ever want –

But Sasha’s human and Sasha only ever looks for women so Nicke swallows this nameless, wordless want, empties another cocktail, and forces this part of himself down. It may bite, but it’s not like he’ll die of it, far from it. It’s just going to bite and sting for a bit, but mating’s just an option, not a necessity – and he’s young, anyways. There’ll be other mates, other prospects, other people strong enough to carry.

/

(But none of them are Sasha.)

/

(A few years in, Nicke admits it: as if his desire is a compass that had gotten readjusted and now turned only to Sasha, his strong lines, his grin, feverishly blue eyes, booming laugh, wide shoulders and hands and hips and it’s oh-so-easy to imagine -)

/

He’s never ready for anyone else. Tries it, once, with a woman recommended by – anyways, so she knows what he is, what he does and needs and she’s physically able to – but that’s only one half of it. She wants it. Nicke can see it, in her wide, black pupils, and the way she stares at him, shivering and excited and full of desire.

But yet, as he cups her face to kiss her, breathing in the smell of her body, sweaty and warm and so, so human – she’s off. Her smell feels wrong. Oh, she smells right, in the way that all humans do if they’d make good hosts. But she’s – wrong, for him, in a way. (She’s not Sasha.)

He doesn’t mate her, despite her want, but he does make her come, on his tongue, his fingers, his mouth, until she’s shaking, until she’s pulling him off, until he licks her clean.

If his cock is left ignored, that’s all on him.

/

After that, he never tries fucking anyone else. He could. Sometimes he even wants to. But as soon as they’re lying down – or are pressed against the wall, are bent over the counter, a couch, anything, anywhere -, he realizes how wrong it feels. How much he wants the lines of their bodies to be written differently. How he wants someone else entirely, how some part of him has already decided whom he wants to be mated to –

He can fuck them, of course, like a human. There are more than enough ways to make them come, in any way, and not even all of that involve him needing a cock, and usually, it works, in the end. Satisfying for everyone involved.

It’s enough to still the hunger in Nicke, that gnawing feeling low and deep in his belly when he looks at his best friend. So much time spent between them, so much they have shared, so much they’ve done, together, so much they’ve built here in Washington. Just the two of them. Their team. Their decade. No matter how it goes: they have left their impression in Washington.

And Nicke wants more.

No matter how many years it will take, apparently. He still wants Sasha. If anything, he wants him more, the more years they share. The more he learns of Sasha, even the stupid, little details – he wants him. As if there’ll never be anyone else he’d ever get mated to.

Their kind doesn’t take mating easily.

/

His mother asks, of course. Several times, and the older he gets, the more she asks. Kristoffer has mated already, found his partner. Several of his offsprings have made it, growing well. The gem of their parents, if anything.

Now they all ask him. When will it be his turn? When will he find a mate? Even just a temporary one, he could play it off like an accidental pregnancy, if he’s just secretive enough. There are ways to make it all look like a human pregnancy he will raise, all adult and responsible.

Nicke knows, of course, he’s not stupid, he’s looked up the differences between their kind and humans and he could come up with enough ideas to make it seem human-normal.

But he can’t exactly tell them that he just – can’t, anymore. Not anymore, couldn’t for a few years by now: he cannot mate. Hasn’t mated, actually, not even entered – rut, heat, whatever it is that they do to finally mate. It’s worrisome, of course, and definitely for someone of his age. He is in prime age for a mating, finding a mate and settle down and start a new family.

In a way he has: Sasha’s by his side and Washington’s home and it will be so for a few years still and apparently that’s enough for his body. More than enough. He can fuck others, can have sex with them, but the urge to mate them is zero.

No, it all just crops up with Sasha.

Sasha, so tempting, so close, so easy to daydream about.

Sasha, who’s so impossible.

Nicke does not explain any of that to his family. Better they think him anything else than the truth. Let them think he’s infertile, unable to find a mate, unable to mate, anything. Anything but the truth: he is only half-mated. Bound to a human without being wanted in turn.

/

It probably would’ve worked out. In a few years, the prime time for mating would’ve passed for him, anyways: hockey is a harsh sport. It did leave its traces on his body, and it would’ve left that one on him, too, without a doubt. The frenzies had started to slow down, already, more and more time between each –

He made it through –

Almost.

Almost – but not quite.

They win the Cup first.

/

It’s his undoing.

/

Sasha smells glorious.

Sasha always does, of course, heady and heavy and thick and so much that Nicke wants to eat him alive, breathe him in against his throat, where his heartbeat shivered beneath delicate skin until Sasha whimpered –

And the win makes him explode, fizz, yell, and he screams into Nicke’s face and there’s the Cup and Sasha’s close and everyone’s close, an amalgam of people intertwined with him and where does he end? Where do they start? They are one and they have won and the Cup is theirs –

He screams, fists wrapped around the silver of the Cup or a bottle and who knows? He laughs and takes a sip of whatever cup’s in his hands and there’s the Cup and he laughs –

Sasha’s burning hot and solid next to him, arm always wrapped around him except for when he’s drinking, too, or celebrating, or lifting the Cup.

They stay together. For some reason, they do, drifting back together, no matter where they were: like magnets, they click back together.

Sasha’s there.

Nicke looks at him, blurry and fuzzy with alcohol, noticing the slope of Sasha’s shoulders and the way he smelled of sticky-sweet alcohol but also rich, musky human. – The season’s taken a lot of Sasha, and now during the summer Sasha would bulk up again, gather strength. But right now he’s cut down to the bare essence of himself: thick muscles, wide and strong and solid, no more and no less to him than what had been necessary for the Cup run.

As Nicke had been: cut down to just what’s necessary. But on Sasha, it looks so much better, a temptation of itself, and Nicke wants, has never wanted as much as he does in this moment: Sasha’s so good, so perfect, so utterly, absolutely perfect: they’ve won the Cup, they’ve done it, they won what they came here for, after years upon years. And Sasha, the boy, bubbling and frenzied, had grown into the captain, still bubbling and frenzied, but also a wide river, strong and limitless and carrying and –

Nicke wants.

Nicke stares at Sasha and thinks of it. Wrapping his arm around Sasha’s side in a halfway hug, burying his face in Sasha’s shoulder, squeezing into him – and thinking of how good Sasha was. Not just as a captain, as a leader; but also as a human, as a ---

He swallows.

Drinks more cocktails. Shots. Anything.

It tastes like blackberries, like currants, like sweet and sticky fruits.

He stares at Sasha, the sweat drenching his shirt at the lower back, at that slope where Nicke wants to bite, before his finger nails dig into Sasha’s hips as he –

Better down another shot.

Sickly-fruity.

“We won!”, Sasha yells, and it might’ve been anything he yelled; Nicke guessed. The club? Place they are? It’s dark, neon lights zapping through them. Not staring at Sasha’s belly is so, so difficult, even in the dim light. Nicke shouldn’t be able to see it in the darkness, but for some reason he’s hyperaware of how Sasha’s shirt rucked up slightly. Not much. But it’s so close and Nicke could push his hands beneath it, could – could touch him, could feel him up, could feel the belly that was so strong and thick and perfect, so, so perfect for him –

His eyes snap up.

Sasha’s eyes are black, an abyss, swallowing Nicke whole.

/

He gasps, against Sasha’s lips, and for once doesn’t care if no one else is aware of his want.

And Sasha returns it, if his roaming hands and muffled noises are any indication, he gasps and moans and when he ruts against Nicke’s hips, he’s hard, bulge in his jeans.

His voice is raw when he mumbles something against Nicke’s lips, before kissing him, tongue pushing into his mouth, and Nicke moans, raw and wild, grabbing Sasha’s ass, finger tips digging in through the denim.

Like this it’s so easy to see, to want, to have: Sasha. Wrapped around him, curling into him, moaning. Shirt sticking to his skin, sweating, smelling like heaven; Nicke wants to eat him, wants to bite and suck and bite until Sasha’s gonna _still_ and he’s going to be able to –

But then Sasha grunts and sucks on his tongue while grinding his cock filthily against Nicke’s, and all the thoughts are lost.

/

Somehow, they make it into someone’s room. Might be one of theirs. Who knows. Who cares. There’s a bed, they’re alone, that’s all that matters. Nicke sucks a dozen truly spectacular hickey into Sasha’s shoulders and throat until Sasha curses him out in Russian and turns them around, staring at Nicke as if he’s gonna swallow him whole, only to return the favour.

/

“Wanna fuck you.”, he murmurs into Sasha’s feverish skin, licking a wet stripe before kissing him deeply again.

“Yeah.”, Sasha says, breathes out, “yeah, do it.”, and wraps his arm around Nicke.

/

When it happens, it’s so different from how Nicke has imagined it.

Not worse.

Just different.

/

Sasha tastes like whatever they’ve been drinking this whole night and want. Naked want, desire, burning hot and syrupy like molasses and Nicke could spend another decade tasting him, just licking his skin to find out how he tasted, and kiss him.

But Sasha moans, fisting his hair and writhing and Nicke also wants that, too, and right now Sasha’s there, right there, and his cock’s so hard and gorgeous, tip dripping against Sasha’s gorgeous belly and Nicke –

Nicke stares into Sasha’s eyes, wide and dark and glittering in the night, and he pushes into him.

Under him, Sasha moans, throwing his head back and whimpering, his throat a long, tempting line. Nicke bites him, again, and again, and again, sucking viciously purple hickey into the delicate skin, and Sasha makes aborted, choked noises, his large hands spasming against Nicke’s scalp –

“More”, he whimpers, in English, Swedish, Russian, anything, words have lost all meaning.

But Nicke knows the curve of Sasha’s body, this curl of temptation and desire and sheer, naked want, so he fucks into Sasha’s body, hips snapping against his. Sucks more hickeys.

Sasha’s legs wrap around his hips, keeping him. Forcing him deep, making him stay.

Nicke kisses him, pushing his tongue into Sasha’s mouth, wet and slick, and if anything, Sasha’s arms wrap around him, burning hot, and Sasha returns the kiss just as feverishly, just as reverently.

Like this, it’s impossible to push deep, to properly fuck Sasha as much as he wants to – but it doesn’t matter, anyways: Sasha’s in his arms and he’s turned towards Nicke like he’s blooming, like it’s all he needs right in this moment and like this it is so terribly easy to roll his hips until he’s found out which way made Sasha whimper and his thick, strong thighs shake the most.

Sasha, so strong and limitless, and it is such a heady feeling to know how to fuck him the best way, how to roll his hips and when to twist in such a way to make him tremble, to trace these whimpers and moans from his lips.

Sasha, their leader, their captain, the one who is everything – and Nicke has him. Like this. But more than that: he’s the one who gets him like this. _He’s _the one Sasha clings to, blunt finger nails digging into skin so hard there’s almost blood welling up, legs wrapped around hips, curled into him. That’s him. No one else.

From Sasha’s lips, choked-off whimpers are spilling forth, so Nicke keeps doing what he’s doing, hips rolling against Sasha’s, burying himself into the heat of Sasha’s body, sweaty and sticky, until he feels like he could crawl into him, until he could trace Sasha’s taste and smell from a world away. Oh, it’s so close to himself, to what he himself is being, the whole of Sasha.

“Need you”, he gasps into Sasha’s hair, in Swedish and without sound, “need you”, he says, and it feels like a truth he hadn’t admitted even to himself so far: that he did need Sasha and had Sasha known which power he wielded over Nicke?

“Nicke”, Sasha moans, and his fingers dig into Nicke’s back, spasming.

So close –

Nicke presses their foreheads together, looking into Sasha’s pale, pale blue eyes that are eaten by black, by desire, by want. Need.

Yes.

Good.

He kisses him, tongue pushing into Sasha’s mouth –

\- And his positor pushes deeper into Sasha.

Against his lips, Sasha chokes, fingers scrabbling for hold.

Too late.

/

A mating’s an intense thing.

  
Several hours, his mother had warned him, before he’d even had so much as a stray thought of mating anyone, ever, in a far-away future.

/

Under him, Sasha makes a noise that’s choked-off by Nicke’s tongue and Nicke whimpers as he pushes into Sasha and it’s like shaking loose a part of himself he hadn’t been aware had been tense, like checking a bruise by pressing against it: he groans, helplessly, as his positor pushes into Sasha, wriggling deeper, finding just the right place for his eggs.

Against his back, Sasha’s fingers claw deep lines into the skin, scrabbling for a hold.

Nicke breaks the kiss and bites into the juncture of his throat and shoulder, biting and sucking, until he can almost taste the blood welling up in a bruise beneath the skin.

Sasha whimpers, body spasming against him –

And then the first egg comes.

At first, it’s just a heavy weight dropping in Nicke’s belly, like a pressure he needs to push, push, pushforcepush into Sasha or die, and his positor wriggles slightly, ready, ready for years, more than a decade now to do this, to mate, finally, mate, his mate, mate, mate, he needs, he wants – he _has_, and then – he pushes it into Sasha. Slowly. His first egg. It’s – it’s weird, such a vital part of himself, so fragile yet important, pushing it into someone else, but it feels so right that Sasha’s going to carry it, it will be safe with Sasha. Yes. Sasha, so solid and strong, he’s gonna keep it safe, going to care well –

Nicke whimpers against the wet-hot skin of Sasha’s throat as he pushes more eggs into him. They’ll be safe with Sasha. So good. More. Needs more. Sasha – he’ll be good. Keep them safe. Keep them all safe. Good mate. Good choice. Good mate for eggs.

More.

Nicke bites into Sasha’s neck, sucking a dark purple hickey into his throat as his positor deposits more and more eggs into him, trembling with the force of it. As if his body’s unlocking eggs upon eggs, now that he has a good host for them, good mate. _Such_ a good mate.

Sasha’s palms slip on Nicke’s skin, and the pain of his finger nails is so easily forgotten in the sweet, sweet feeling of letting go yet another egg. It is so good and right and _good_ to push as deep as he can, anything just to push in yet another egg, just to make sure Sasha’s taking that one, too. As much as he can put into his mate. Needs it. Needs him.

/

The first eggs came so quickly, faster and faster, but after a time, it slowed down, each egg taking ore and more time, and he’s feeling them drop, a weight in his belly, pushing through his positor, until he releases them in the burning heat of Sasha. And another one.

It feels like it will never stop, like he’ll empty himself out into Sasha until there’s nothing left of him and all of it spent in Sasha, making sure there’ll be a future –

Sasha whimpers, pained little noises –

Nicke kisses his cheeks, his lips, his jaw, throat, shoulders. Sasha’s burning up, body trembling, as if to escape.

That’s okay: Nicke’s about done, anyways, he can feel it. The weight of the eggs has dropped and he feels lighter than he has in years; the weight he’s been unknowingly carrying for years now all taken. Gone. Taken so well by Sasha.

He licks, sucks, cherishes another hickey into Sasha’s skin and pushes one of the last eggs into him.

/

When it is done, he grunts and pulls out, rolling off of Sasha.

For a second, Sasha lies there –

\- before he makes a desperate noise and –

\- and Nicke rolls to his side, mouth finding the new curve of his belly, slope where there hadn’t been one, before, and his wet lips kiss it, kiss down, to Sasha’s cock, curving up just so lovely, and Nicke sucks him down, tasting him. Swallowing. Swallowing Sasha’s taste, one he hasn’t tasted yet, so different from the taste of his throat and nipples and mouth and tongue and so good, too.

Nicke sucks and swallows and Sasha whimpers, fingers spasming and clenching in Nicke’s hair, until his hips jerk up and he comes –

And, of course, Nicke swallows him, every last drop, taking Sasha just as good as Sasha’s taken his seed.

Only when Sasha has spent, body falling back limply, does Nicke let him go, kissing up his taut, stretched skin of his belly: where it once had been flat, it is now curved.

Nicke breathes faint kisses across Sasha’s nipples, his still semi-flat belly, and splays his fingers: soon, Sasha will swell. Will swell even further, will expand and grow and host – his offspring. Their offspring. Nicke’s eggs, they’ll grow and change Sasha’s body, at least for the moment.

Soon. But not yet. Right now, Nicke has only laid them and Sasha’s taken them in and –

\- and Nicke kisses him, open mouthed and wetly and Sasha’s tongue is thick and there and he returns it, if though less intensely.

So good. So, so good. Sasha’s taken his eggs so good, he looks so good, Nicke can’t wait to see him, all ready and swollen and round and watch him lay the eggs, too, and that’s Sasha, that’s his Sasha, that’s his, his alone, his, his mate, his, his host, his, his, his, and he’s swollen with Nicke’s eggs, even if it’s just a gentle curve.

But as Nicke settles behind Sasha, palms splayed wide on Sasha’s belly: it’s there, the swelling. Nicke put that there. His first mating, and Sasha accepted them, accepted _him_.

God, he can’t wait to see him all heavy with it, round. Visibly carrying Nicke’s eggs.

He nestles close, lips close to Sasha’s neck.

Soon.

Soon, they’d see it. But not now.

Now, his palms will only curl around alight curve, nothing else. It will take its time.

Sasha sighs, already half-lost to sleep.

  
_Soon_, Nicke thinks and follows him.

**Author's Note:**

> Dub/con refers to the mating - Sasha's very much on board for the sex part, although they're both drunk. Implied is that while sober, Nicke is very much able to control his "mating urges", or however it may be called. But while drunk, his inhibitions are lowered and he mates with Sasha, who has not had the opportunity to agree to this.


End file.
